The Things That Linger
by EFAW
Summary: They say the 44th Street police station is haunted. Wes, of course, doesn't believe it for a minute. His mysterious new friend Travis does, though. Ghost!AU. Oneshot.


**Summary: **They say the 44th Street police station is haunted. Wes, of course, doesn't believe it for a minute. His mysterious new friend Travis does, though. Ghost!AU. Oneshot.

**Warnings: **Ghost AU. Gentleman Caller-centric. Some violence and swearing.

**Disclaimer: **I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

**While in the process of writing a completely different Ghost AU where Wes was the ghost, I thought about how it would turn out if Travis was the ghost instead. And then this happened.**

**OOOO**

**The Things That Linger**

"_When I see ghosts they look perfectly real and solid—like a living human being…They just look like ordinary people, in living color, and sometimes it is hard to tell who is a ghost."_

—_Chris Woodyard_

**XXXX**

They say the 44th Street police station is haunted. That strange things happen when no one is watching, and the officers believe they have a ghost in the building.

The building is still fairly new, only ten years old, but the lights flicker, and sometimes the security cameras will fuzz out, just for a moment, as though someone is walking by who can't be captured on film. It's said that every so often, computers will turn off at random, or a new program will open up that no one needed.

They talk about the drug dealer who escaped from holding, a few months ago. He knocked out two officers, grabbed a gun, and made a break for it. They say the fugitive ran into the stairwell and never came out. When officers went in to check it out, they found the man unconscious at the bottom, zip-tied to the railing. The cameras caught nothing but static.

It's believed that if you use the elevator, you should wait a moment before stepping out, to let the ghost go on ahead of you. The ghost may not be on the elevator with you. The ghost may not be getting off on your floor. But maybe it is.

They say that sometimes, if you're alone at night, you can hear faint humming, and you'll see the flash of a leather jacket out of the corner of your eye. But when you turn to look, nothing is there.

"Seriously?" Wes raises one incredulous eyebrow. "People believe that?"

"Sure do," Paekman says cheerily, taking a bite out of his burger. "Everyone believes it. It's our own little urban legend here."

"That's ridiculous." Wes rolls his eyes, popping a grape tomato in his mouth.

"Careful there, your eyes might roll right out of your head if you do that again." Paekman hums, eyeing Wes. "Seriously, though, you haven't noticed anything? Flickering lights, weird shivers down your spine, the sensation that your stuff has been moved?"

"Not really." Wes shrugs. "I mean, sometimes people use my hand sanitizer, but I know it's Corby. I've caught him twice."

"Weird." Now Paekman looks intrigued. "Most newbies notice something within _days_. You've been here, what, almost a month now? And you've seen _nothing_?" He gives Wes a once-over. "I wonder what's so special about you?"

"My biting charm," Wes growls, stabbing his lettuce. "Do _you_ believe in the ghost?"

"Oh, sure." Paekman grins. "I've left coffee a whole slew of times."

"Coffee," Wes questions flatly.

The Asian man takes a long swallow from his cup. "Coffee. Whoever's last to leave tends to leave a half cup of coffee in the pot. For the ghost, you know. You've noticed that?"

"I've noticed Lydia leaving coffee in the pot, yes, and I've been dumping it out every night." At Paekman's dramatic gasp, Wes rolls his eyes again. "Shut up. So what, the coffee is some sort of peace offering? An 'I'll give you this if you promise not to snap and murder everyone' type thing?"

"More like…'You're probably lonely here all night by yourself, here's something to show we're thinking of you' type thing, really."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

Paekman just keeps grinning. "I take it you don't believe the story."

"Of course not. There's no such thing as ghosts."

"Ah. That must be what's keeping the ghost away. Your crunchy candy coating made of cynicism."

Wes glowers and kicks his friend under the table. "I'm not cynical. I'm _realistic_, that's all. Once you're dead, you're dead. That's it. There's no such thing as ghosts."

**XXXX**

It's amazing how many people _believe _there's such a thing as the ghost, though. Wes would have thought his fellow officers wouldn't buy it. Oh, there are always some superstitious cops who will believe in anything, even ghosts, but he figures most of them would be logical about this.

Yet every single person he's asked has had the same thing to say. _There's a ghost in this building_. And they all have a story to tell. Corby the hand sanitizer thief says he came in one day, his second week after transferring, and all the stuff on his desk had been turned upside down. Lydia, she of the leftover coffee, says that once her computer got stuck on a word processing program and the only thing that would type was the word 'Hello!', over and over again for thirty-five pages until IT came and pulled the plug.

Even Fred Bendek, Wes's mentor, who is a bit spacey sometimes but as down-to-earth as you can get, admits that occasionally Snowball will growl at nothing, and he thinks the dog is growling at the ghost.

That's what he's thinking about tonight. It's almost eleven and the department is completely empty, and he's getting nowhere with these cases no matter how long he stares at them. He sighs and shoves the files away, remembering Paekman's stupid story and all the people who believe it.

_There's no such thing as ghosts,_ he muses, climbing to his feet. _You'd think a bunch of trained cops would know better than to believe such a thing._

And yet, they all do. Which either means that something supernatural is going on, or they are all being taken in by the same logical explanation. It's definitely the latter, Wes thinks. There's always a logical explanation for everything. You just have to find it.

The alternative is that there _is _such a thing as an afterlife. That someone who's died can return from beyond the grave. And that…that isn't worth thinking about.

"It's completely ridiculous, is what it is," he grumbles to himself, digging in his pockets for a dollar. He feeds it into the machine, shaking his head. "Bunch of seasoned cops believing in superstitious twaddle…"

"What kind of superstitious twaddle?"

Wes jumps and whirls around, hand going to his hip. The guy standing behind him raises his hands, eyes widening. "Woah, hey, no need for that." He reaches down with one hand, tugging his leather jacket away from his hip to reveal a gold badge on his belt. "I'm a cop too. Didn't mean to scare you."

Wes swallows, straightening. "You didn't scare me." He lets his hand fall away from his gun. "I was just…startled. I didn't know anyone else was up here."

"Right." The other man gives him an easy grin, tucking his hands in his pockets. "I'm Travis. I work in Narco and Vice. Nice to meet you."

Wes eyes him. Travis is about the same height as Wes but a little heavier, with mocha skin and bright blue eyes. He stands there, easy in his skin in a way Wes envies, radiating trust and friendliness.

And somehow, despite the fact that Wes has never seen him before in his life, he feels like he _can_ trust Travis.

Wes doesn't like that.

"Wes Mitchell," he says slowly, turning back to the machine and punching in the code for his chips, but keeping one eye on the man at his back. "Missing Persons. If you're Narco, what are you doing all the way up here?"

Travis shrugs, leaning against the wall in plain sight, like he somehow understands Wes doesn't like him at his back. "I was alone, and I get bored, so sometimes I take walks. Heard you talking, and I came to say hi." He grins again, teeth bright against his skin. "Hi."

Despite himself, Wes feels a smile tug at the corner of his lips. "You're not as charming as you think you are."

"Oh, now I don't know about that. I think I'm pretty darn charming."

"You're entirely mistaken." And Wes is not amused. Not even a little bit.

Any mirth he may or may not be feeling fades away completely when he realizes that his chips haven't dropped. "Goddammit," he groans, weakly punching the plastic front.

"What's up?" Travis asks over his shoulder.

Wes flinches, a little, but only because he hadn't heard the other man move. "The machine ate my money." He sighs and starts digging through his pockets for another bill. "Again." Normally, he would have gone to find another machine, but the only other one on this floor never has anything he wants.

"Hey, now, don't do that." Travis sidles around, standing in front of the machine beside Wes. "I know how to get it to give your money back."

"Yeah?" Wes raises an eyebrow, stepping back. "Do show."

Flashing a cocky smirk, Travis peers at the side of the machine. "Well, if you give it a good kick…right about…here—" He kicks the machine on the side, right under the Pepsi logo, and the coin return jingles with change. "—it'll give you four quarters."

Wes stares at Travis as the other man fishes out the change. "How often _do_ you come up here?" was the question that comes out of his mouth.

Another bright white smile as Travis feeds the coins back into the machine. "More often than you would expect. It should work this time. What did you want?"

Wes tells him. Travis punches the buttons, and smoothly, like there'd never been a problem, the bag of chips drop to the bottom. Travis scoops them out, hands them to Wes with a flourish and a twinkle in his eye. "Here ya go."

Wes looks at the chips. He thinks about his empty department, and the case files with no leads. He thinks about going home to a quiet house with a distant wife.

He takes the chips.

"Do you want to join me?"

**XXXX**

"So you believe in the ghost?"

"Oh, absolutely." Travis leans back in his chair, propping his feet up on a second chair and ignoring Wes's dirty look. "If that many people experience something, it's gone long past coincidence. _Something's_ going on at this precinct."

Wes brings two mugs of decaf to the table, setting one down in front of Travis. "Have you experienced any 'ghostly activity'?" he questions as he sits, sarcasm dripping from the two words.

Travis hums, picking up the mug and breathing in the scent of the brew. "I guess? Nothing like what some people report, but the stairwell lights flicker when I walk through."

"That could just be faulty wiring," Wes points out, wrapping his hands around his own mug.

"Could be." Travis eyes Wes. "Why are you so unwilling to believe there's something else going on here?"

"Because ghosts don't exist," Wes says stubbornly. There are no such things as ghosts. There are just bodies in the ground and weeping mothers mourning their children.

Travis's gaze hasn't left Wes, bright blue eyes boring into him as though he's trying to see right through him. Wes glowers and sips his coffee, pretending he isn't bothered by the scrutiny. Because he isn't. There's nothing to be bothered by. It isn't like he's hiding anything.

Travis's eyes light up. "Oh, I get it. You don't want to believe in ghosts because there's someone you don't want coming back."

Wes's stomach clenches.

Travis continues, unabated. "Who was it? Friend? Family? Former lover?" He leans forward, giving Wes a smile that conveys _Hey I'm harmless and friendly you can talk to me so dish._

Wes's fingers tighten around his mug. "Maybe I don't believe in the ghost because _I don't believe in ghosts_." He puts as much ire into the words as possible, and if it covers up the fact that Travis was maybe a little bit right, well, then all the better.

Face dropping, Travis leans back. "Well, you're no fun." He sips at his coffee. "I think it's cool, having a ghost. Kind of like a mascot, or a weird pet. You know? It makes us interesting and notorious."

"We should be interesting and notorious for the good work we do," Wes says archly.

Travis guffaws. "Man, do you even _live_ in reality? That's totally not how the justice system works. Everyone hates us. Unless we have something cool going for us. Like a ghost."

Wes's brow furrows. "That's flawed thinking about a system that's only meant to protect people."

"And this is _way_ too philosophical for this late at night." Travis leans forward. "Let's move on to better topics. Like, have _you_ experienced the ghost?"

Wes scoffs. "Of course not. There's no such thing, and I have therefore not experienced it." Travis's eyes sparkle, and Wes's eyes narrow. "Stop that. Absolutely not."

"Stop what?" Travis puts on his most innocent face.

"Whatever you were just thinking of doing." Wes scowls. "We just met. You're not allowed to do annoying things to me."

Travis sighs, slumping back in his seat. "_Fine_. You're a real buzzkill, you know that?"

There's an uncomfortable sinking feeling in Wes's chest. He knows how this goes. Gentle rebuffs and awkward conversations and a steady pulling away until he gets the message that his presence isn't wanted. He brings his mug to his face to cover whatever expression he might be making.

"I've heard that," he mutters into the brew, no longer looking at Travis. It's a shame. Wes doesn't have many friends in the precinct, and he'd enjoyed talking to Travis. He stands. "I'd think I'd better call it a night. Bye."

As he turns to go, Travis calls out, "See you later, then."

Wes falters. Just for a second. He turns back towards the table and finds Travis sitting there, grinning guilelessly, looking completely sincere.

"I…really?" It slips out before he can stop himself. He hates it instantly, the awkward hesitation as he fishes for, basically, reassurance.

Travis doesn't call him out on it. His eyes crinkle at the corners and his gaze goes soft.

"I'll see you around, Wes."

Wes goes home smiling.

**XXXX**

Over the next few weeks, they continue to meet. Not often, and only in the evenings, when Wes works overtime and the rest of the department has gone home. Wes has tried asking the other detective why he always seems to have such free time, that he can just trot up four flights of stairs and hang out with Wes for an hour or two, but Travis always avoids the question and changes the subject.

Travis also never comes into Missing Persons. Whenever he stays late, Wes always eventually gets peckish, and he'll make a foray out to the vending machine, where, typically, Travis will appear out of thin air and say some cheesy line. (Wes refuses to admit that it is maybe _mildly_ charming.) But a handful of times, Wes comes out to find Travis lurking in the hall like a vampire who can't enter unless he's given permission.

"You could just come into the department and get me," Wes says after the third time he catches Travis. Travis just shrugs.

"You always look so intense, pouring over your case files. I don't want to interrupt your concentration."

Wes just gives him a look. "Just come inside," he orders with a roll of his eyes. He stays late to study the cases he's stuck on, and staring at the same page for hours rarely does him any good. Generally by that point he's fixating a little, and he would be more than happy for the interruption.

For the most part, they sit in the break room and talk. They never talked about work, for various reasons. He tried it once, rehashing everything about his then-current case, because maybe tossing ideas back and forth with Travis would spring up some new leads. It didn't work. Wes only got frustrated and Travis was so very little help it was laughable.

"Aren't you a detective?" Wes growled at the time, pacing the break room in his agitation.

"Yeah, but missing people aren't really my thing," Travis said, following Wes's path with his eyes and moving nothing else. "I'm more of a chase-em-down-and-book-em guy. Possibly a shoot-em-when-they-try-to-run-or-if-they're-just-being-annoying type. Finding people? Not so good."

"Well, thanks for the help," Wes snarled and stormed off.

He'd thought that was it, but the next time he stays late, Travis is there acting like nothing happened.

Wes wishes he could let go of things so easily.

He tries asking about Travis's work, but Travis is unusually close-lipped about it. "That's classified," he'll say whenever Wes brings it up, to which Wes will roll his eyes and snark, "That only works for the feds, Travis." But for once in his life, Wes doesn't push it. He figures Travis probably wants to let go of the job for a little while. That's kind of why Wes is willing to sit and talk with the other detective. Escapism.

He still pours out the half-pot of coffee Lydia leaves, and he staunchly refuses to believe in the ghost, a topic that comes up every time they meet. But he brews a new pot whenever the last person leaves the department, because he knows sooner or later Travis will show up.

At the six-week mark, they've met almost fifteen times, and Wes is starting to think they could be considered _friends_.

**XXXX**

"Hey Wes. What's up?"

Wes looks up with a frown. "What's with that tone?"

Paekman smiles innocently. "What tone?"

The frown deepens. "The tone that says 'I'm very concerned about you and am subtly probing to see if you've gone off the rails'."

"There's no tone, Wes. You're my friend. I'm allowed to ask how you've been since I saw you last," Paekman snorts, sitting across from him.

Wes just scowls. "Paekman. There was a tone. I know that tone. You were using it."

Paekman's smile holds for a few more seconds, but Wes has always prided himself on his steady take-no-bullshit glower. It's broken stronger men in court.

"Fine." Paekman leans back with a sigh. "Lydia says you've been staying late. Like, three or four times a week. She is…_concerned_ that maybe you're getting a little too attached to certain cases. And that made me worried you might be getting obsessed."

Wes twitches.

"Not like that, dude." Paekman rolls his eyes. "You know I wouldn't go _there._ I just meant…look, every cop has one, that case you can't solve but you can't let go. And it's way too easy to get obsessed and lose focus. I just wanted to make sure that wasn't happening here."

Wes relaxes. Marginally. "No."

Paekman gives him a look.

"Okay, maybe it is a little," Wes concedes. "But not completely. I sort of…made a friend."

"Yeah?" Paekman perks up. "Good for you!"

"That's why I'm staying late." It's hedging, a smidge, but Wes _really_ doesn't want to talk about cases and obsessing right now. "He works the night shift, so I can only really see him if I stay late."

Paekman gives him another look. "Why can't you just see him outside of work?"

"I…" Wes frowns. "I never…thought of that." That's strange, isn't it? Or is it? Wes doesn't socialize much outside of work. Why _would_ he consider meeting a work friend away from the office? Nothing weird there at all.

"Riiight…" Paekman drawls. "Well, whatever." He leans forward, propping his chin on his hand and looking for all the world like a teenage girl about to hear the latest gossip. "Tell me _all_ about your new friend."

Here, Wes is on more familiar ground. "Okay, first, stop sounding like I learned a new trick."

"Right, right, do go on."

"Second, I hate you."

"Uh-huh."

Wes sighs and, seeing as how Paekman clearly isn't going to stop any time soon and also kind of wanting to talk about Travis, starts. "He's—"

Starts, because he's barely gotten one word out when Paekman's pager rings.

"Aw, damn." Paekman checks the pager, curses again, and stands, gathering his lunch. "Dammit, I gotta go."

One of Wes's eyebrows goes up. "A case?"

"You know how it is." Paekman rolls his eyes. "Property crime is hopping. I will see you later, and you _will_ tell me all about your new friend."

"I look forward to it," Wes says dryly. Paekman just laughs and walks off.

As soon as his friend leaves, the small smile fades and Wes stares pensively at his lunch.

**XXXX**

He isn't obsessed, is he? It isn't obsession to keep going back to his files, looking for any possible lead that might guide him towards a solution. These cases aren't lost yet. He still has a chance.

Wes frowns at the folder in front of him, not lifting the cover. He can understand why Paekman is worried. Paekman is Wes's only real friend in the precinct, and during one drunken night of bonding, Wes had unloaded everything about why he'd left law. About Anthony Padua, and how he'd gotten so obsessed with the case, going over and over it and replaying the _what-ifs_ in his head as though that would change anything.

_What-ifs_ are as impossible as the precinct ghost, but that hadn't stopped them from wrecking his former career. He'd gotten too stuck in his own failures and lost sight of everything else and it ruined him.

This isn't like that, though.

Right?

"Whatever you're thinking about right now, you need to stop. I could feel you brooding out in the hall."

Wes relaxes.

It's ridiculous, really, to react so strongly to someone he'd met little over a month ago. But it's true. Hearing Travis's voice makes the tension just…ease away. No one else can make his problems feel lighter just by talking. Not even Alex.

Travis is something… Wes doesn't know if he's something _special_, exactly. But he's definitely something.

He glances up, sees Travis lurking in the doorway, and rolls his eyes. "Seriously, just come inside. It's not like you're interrupting anything."

After a second's thought, Travis comes in, rolling with that easy grace Wes envies, like he's completely comfortable in his own body. Not that he'd ever say it. Travis would absolutely take it the wrong way, and he's more than confident enough about his looks.

Travis leans casually against the desk, squinting at the file on the desktop. "What's got you so dark-eyed and gloomy?"

Wes slides the file away to the other end of the desk, out of Travis's reach. "Something I should probably take a break on." He shifts, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. "We need to talk about the notes you've been leaving me."

The other man blinks. "What notes?"

"What notes, he says." Wes pulls open his top drawer. "These notes." On top of his neatly organized collection of office supplies are half a dozen sticky notes that all say the same thing. _THE GHOST WAS HERE!_ Two of them have smiley faces. The others have what Wes thinks is supposed to be some sort of angry scary monster face.

"Aw, man, you're finally getting some ghostly activity? Awesome!" Travis peers at the notes with a grin.

Wes glares at him. "I am _not_ getting 'ghostly activity'. There's no such thing. You've been writing these notes and sticking them in my drawers. I know it's been you."

"Yeah?" Travis's grin turns mischievous. "How'd you know that?"

"Because it's something you'd do."

"Wes, babe, we've only known each other for six weeks. How can you be _sure_?"

Wes just keeps glaring. "Six weeks is _more_ than long enough to figure out your character."

"It could still be the ghost. He's known as a bit of a trickster," Travis points out.

More glaring.

Travis sighs. "Fine, _fine_, you got me. I did it. Man, you suck all the fun out of everything." He nudges the drawer shut with his knee and hops up on the corner of Wes's desk, ignoring the blonde's dirty look. "I thought it was funny."

"It was annoying, is what it was. I've told you I don't like people touching my stuff. That includes you."

"You may have mentioned it," Travis allows, leaning over Wes's desk and grabbing the file.

"Hey!"

"Let's see who's got you all hot and bothered tonight." Ignoring Wes, Travis hops back of the desk, circling around to the other side and flipping the folder open. "Veronica Maisley. She's cute. This is a really good mug shot." Without looking up, he moves, keeping the desk between himself and Wes.

Wes growls, stalking around one end. Travis just glides to the other side, riffling through the pages.

"What's this note mean? '4?' Four what?" Travis holds up the note, showing the dark bold lines, and Wes growls again, lunging across the desk for both folder and sticky note. Travis dances out of the way.

"Come on, Wes. You don't know how persistent I can be. Just tell me."

"…_Fine_," Wes hisses through his teeth, glaring at the other man. "But put it _down_."

"See?" Travis snaps the folder closed, tossing it haphazardly on the desk. Wes's inner perfectionist winces. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"I hate you," Wes grumbles, already heading towards the break room.

Travis laughs and follows him out. "No you don't…"

**XXXX**

Travis has the decency to wait until Wes has poured them both coffee and sat down before launching into his questions.

"Tell me about Veronica Maisley."

Wes cradles his mug and sighs. "I thought we weren't going to talk about work."

"That was before I saw your unhappy concentration face. Maybe I can help."

"Missing people aren't your thing, you said. Shooting them is your thing."

"Maybe I've changed."

"I doubt it."

"Come _on_…" Travis wheedles.

Wes debates. They don't talk about work, it just doesn't go well, but Veronica Maisley has been weighing on him for six days now, and Travis _is _asking. Veronica's case is different from the others. She isn't just another missing person. She's…

"Veronica Maisley, 26. Blonde hair, brown eyes, 5 feet 10 inches tall," Wes recites like a litany. "She's a prostitute, works down on York. And, obviously, she's gone missing."

Travis drawls, "Obviously," rolling his eyes. "But what's with the four? What's so special about her to earn the Wesley Mitchell brow furrow?"

"What? I don't furrow my brow."

"You totally do. You're gonna get wrinkles, you know. Now. Veronica. Number four because…?"

Wes resists the urge to feel his forehead. They're getting on a tangent, and Travis is asking.

"Promise you won't laugh?"

The darker man frowns in consternation. "Why would I laugh?"

Wes takes a casual sip of his coffee. He casually sits there, and he casually pretends that he isn't feigning casualness. "You wouldn't be the first." Not that the others _laugh_, per say, not to his _face_. Just…comments, here and there. Exasperated sighs when he tries to talk it through with someone, bored looks of indifference when he begins outlining his theory.

They make it clear they didn't want to listen, so Wes has learned not to talk about it.

But Travis is asking.

"I promise I won't laugh," the other man swears, so Wes begins talking.

"In the past three months, prostitutes have been disappearing. Veronica Maisley is the fourth. There's little to no connection between them, other than their jobs, and no evidence that a crime has taken place. But I think they're being taken and killed."

Travis goes still.

Wes clenches his jaw. "Never mind. It's stupid. Forget I said anything." He never learns, does he? He'll just keep running into the same issues over and over and over and he really just needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.

"I'm going to go," he mutters, rising before he can cause himself any more embarrassment.

He's halfway to the door when Travis says, "There are no witnesses."

Wes pauses. Glances back to find Travis watching him, eyes distant.

"The girls are taken off the street, but there are no witnesses. No one sees a thing. They're the loners, the ones without any close friends or pimps to notice they're gone, so sometimes they don't get reported for three, four days. And even though there's no evidence, no body, you know they're dead."

Wes feels a shiver run down his spine. "How do you know that?"

Blue eyes focus on him, and Travis's smile is a cold, bitter thing. "You should stay late tomorrow. I have something I ought to show you."

**XXXX**

"Are you sure we should be down here?" Wes asks twenty-four hours later. He's never been to the records room after hours, but no one is down here and Wes is pretty sure they're not supposed to just be wandering around.

Travis waves a negligent hand. "Don't worry about it, I come down here all the time and never get caught."

"…So we're _not_ supposed to be down here."

"I didn't say that." Travis's grin is a slice of white in the dim light, and he pulls a ring of keys out of his pocket. Humming under his breath—some song Wes vaguely recognizes as being popular years ago—Travis flips through the keys, trying a few until one clicks. The door to the records room eases open.

"Where did you get that?" Wes hisses, head darting to look for anyone on patrol. He's a cop. This is his precinct. He _belongs _here. And he still feels like a teenager sneaking into an empty school.

"I dated the records girl a while back," Travis says brightly, shoving the ring of keys in his pocket. "Come on, quit dawdling." He darts inside. Wes follows, easing the door shut behind him.

Travis flips on the lights. Wes flinches and bites back the urge to ask if that's a good idea; it's not like they have any other alternative. Travis never _mentioned_ he ought to bring a flashlight along on this little adventure of theirs.

"If we get caught, I'm blaming everything on you," he hisses, following the other man into the depths of the records room.

"We'll see how well that turns out for you, darlin'," Travis drawls smugly, like he knows something Wes doesn't. It's one of the more annoying voices he's used.

"What are we even looking for?" he grumbles, eyeing the boxes lining the shelves. They're all names and dates, but not of case files. This is a different section.

"A box," Travis says mysteriously, still humming that annoying song. They get to the end of the aisle and Travis rounds the corner, running his fingers along the fronts of boxes.

Wes bites back a snappish reply. "A box. That's helpful. What _kind_ of box?"

Travis peers over the shelf, and even though Wes can only see his eyes, he knows the other man is beaming. It's all in the eyes. "A very important box. You'll see."

Wes sighs and follows Travis down the next aisle.

It takes twenty minutes before Travis yells, "Ah-hah!" and bounds down the aisle. Wes follows at a much slower pace; by the time he reaches Travis, Travis has already grabbed a stepladder and is hauling the box down from the shelf.

"Marks, T." Wes reads, stepping back as Travis descends, box in hand. "Who's that?"

"Detective Marks," Travis says, tucking the box under his arm and heading towards the front of the records room. "Before your time. Before my time, too, actually. By like, one day."

"And we care about him because…?"

Travis sends a flash of a smirk over his shoulder. "You'll see…"

And there's really not much Wes can do but continue following the crazy Narco detective on this crazy nighttime adventure.

When did he get so reckless?

"You're a bad influence," Wes grumbles under his breath.

"I try," Travis sing-songs.

There are tables set up at the front of the room, for the records that are too sensitive to be checked out. Travis commandeers one and opens the box, dumping files on the table. Wes winces at the haphazard mess, shoving his hands in his pockets and lingering as Travis begins sorting them into smaller-but-just-as-messy piles.

"Two years ago," Travis says, hands organizing the mysterious box's contents, "there were a string of disappearances. Ten working girls vanished over the course of eight months. There were never any witnesses, and no real connection between the victim."

Wes perks up.

"This guy—" Travis taps the box "—Marks, he had this theory that they were being taken. But no one listened to him. There was no evidence, no bodies. Nothing but a hunch."

Sliding over to the table, Wes picks up one of the files. "That many women disappeared years ago, and no one thought it was connected?"

Travis shrugs. "They're working girls. No one cares about working girls."

"And now it's happening again." Wes frowns at the piles of folders on the table. "Why didn't anyone make the connection?"

"The first time, it happened across town." Travis shrugs. "You know how inter-departmental relations are, let alone inter-precinct relations. The only reason Marks got wind of it was because he knew one of the missing girls."

"How did _you_ get wind of it?" Wes asks absently, flipping through the file in his hand.

There's a half-second hesitation, enough to make Wes look up with a frown. Travis sighs and shoves the files to the side, hopping up on the desk.

"It was all anyone was talking about when I got here. See, Marks, he was reckless. Always jumped headfirst without waiting for backup. He was working these cases, because no one in the proper jurisdiction was doing anything. And then…he got reckless."

Wes's stomach twists. Something in Travis's tone, or maybe just the look on his face, tells him this story isn't going to end well. Wes isn't going to be able to ask Detective Marks what he found.

He sets the file down. "What happened?"

Travis sighs, picking up a small notebook and flipping through it. "What happened? He found a possible lead, maybe—no one's really quite sure what he found—and he went off to chase it."

Wes waits with baited breath.

The notebook flutters to the desk. "When they found him, he'd been shot four times."

"Damn it." Wes drops into one of the chairs by the table, staring at the files in front of him. "God _damn_ it." Finally, the first _hint_ of a lead towards finding these missing girls, except the only guy who might have a clue is lying in a cemetery somewhere.

It's a shame Detective Marks is dead and all that, sure, but Wes didn't know the guy, it was two years ago, and he's looking for missing working girls _now_.

Travis shifts. "Look, I know this has gotta be a disappointment. But this box holds all of Marks's notes on his unofficial investigation. Maybe there's a clue in here."

"How did you even know this was here?" Wes can't help but ask. Sure, they may have been talking about Detective Marks's death when Travis arrived, but that doesn't mean Travis should know where the man's box of notes was.

Travis leans back on the table with a smarmy grin. "I told you, I—"

"—dated the records girl, I remember." Wes picks up the tiny notebook, flipping it open towards the last few entries. If there's any leads, no matter how old, they would have been found right before Marks ran off and got himself shot.

"You got that?" Travis asks, picking up a random file, "okay, then I'll look through this."

They don't find anything that night, but Wes has to admit—sitting down here with someone else beside him is a lot better than sitting alone in his department brooding over mug shots.

**XXXX**

They don't find anything the next night either.

**XXXX**

Or the third.

**XXXX**

On the fourth, Travis suggests something different.

**XXXX**

"I don't think I can do this." Wes taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, peering out the windshield. "I don't know how to talk to prostitutes."

"Dude, it's not that hard." Travis leans down, fiddles with his boot. "Just don't look at their boobs, and talk to them like, you know, _people_. They'll tell you anything you want to know."

Wes flushes and taps the steering wheel again. "I don't know," he hedges, one last gambit to get out of this. "Maybe we should go back and look through the files again…"

"We have been through that box a hundred times. There's nothing there." Travis flips down the visor, checks his hair. "You want information on missing working girls? You're going to have to _ask_ working girls."

Travis is right. Wes knows Travis is right. That's what makes it so annoying. Wes sighs. "Fine. But do I have to wear this? And is this…bling really necessary?" He fiddles with the necklace around his neck, a thin silver chain with a shapeless black medallion that Travis pulled out of his pocket and shoved at him.

Travis pauses and stares at him like he's grown a second head. "Never say 'bling' again, alright? Just, _never_. And yes, it is necessary, it pulls the whole outfit together."

Wes looks down at his outfit. Travis said 'dress casual' so he's in his doing-repairs-around-the-house jeans and a purple short-sleeve shirt he never really wears. He's also wearing hiking boots Alex got him for Christmas a few years back that he never used and a leather jacket Travis pulled out of nowhere that's almost identical to the one Travis is wearing.

"What's wrong with my suit?" Oh, he hopes that didn't come out as whiny as it sounds to his ears.

Travis is back to looking in the mirror, checking his teeth. "Dude, you go walking in wearing your suit, they'll know you're a cop from a mile away." He looks over, gives Wes an up-down one-two. "I mean, they're still going to know you're a cop, but at least this way you're a little more discreet."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you walk like a cop, babe. Or a lawyer. Some sort of weird bastard child of justice. They're gonna know."

"They are _not_." Wes bristles, climbs out of the car, and does _not_ slam the door on Travis's smug face even though he wants to. It's _his_ car, he's not going to do that.

There's a woman twenty yards away. Wes puts his hands in his pockets and strolls casually towards her. He'll show Travis. He does _not_ walk like a cop, he can be totally nondescript if he has to.

The woman gives him a sultry smile when he's no more than five feet away. "Evening, officer. What can I do for you?"

God dammit. Wes looks around for Travis, prepared to punch the smug smirk he knows will be there off Travis's face.

Travis is not there. Travis is nowhere in sight, probably gone off in the other direction to talk to other working girls. Just up and abandoned Wes. The bastard.

Wes sighs and turns back to the working girl, pulling four photos from his jacket. "I'm investigating the disappearance of these four women. Do you know any of them…?"

**XXXX**

"Dude, you look like crap."

Wes scowls at his friend as Paekman slides into the opposite seat. "Thanks, Paekman. I appreciate that. Your kind words remind me why I value our friendship so much."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Paekman waves away Wes's grumbling with casual aplomb, eyes scanning over the blonde's face. "Seriously, though, are you alright? You look exhausted."

Wes sighs, hunching over his coffee cup. "I'm fine. Just haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately."

"Because…?" Paekman prompts. Wes scowls into his coffee.

"I'm working on something. A possible lead. For a case."

"Yeah? And you aren't getting enough sleep because…?"

Wes hesitates. "It's kind of…an off-the-clock type thing."

"Ah, one of _those_," Paekman says, nodding sagely. "Sounds like fun."

"Fun is _not_ the word I would use," Wes grumbles. Watering his lawn is fun. Playing his piano, that's pretty fun.

Not getting enough sleep because he's going out every night to talk to prostitutes? Not fun in the slightest.

Paekman studies him, eyes the way he's hunching over his coffee. Probably sees the dark circles under Wes's eyes and how his fingers keep twitching (either from sleep-deprivation or caffeine overdose, Wes hasn't decided yet).

He leans forward. "Tell me about it."

Wes stares at him.

"Come on," Paekman cajoles, "I'm a pretty decent detective, you know. And talking it out could really help."

That's so like what Travis said, Wes can't help the quirk of his lips. And, to be fair, talking it through with Travis had led him to the box of records—which, admittedly, wasn't as much help as he'd hoped, but it was still better than what he'd had before.

And, if he recalled correctly, Paekman had been here at the time of the first set of killings.

Maybe it _would_ be helpful.

So he tells him, gives the cliffnotes version of the girls and the dead ends and staying out at night to talk to the prostitutes.

At the end of it, Paekman is looking thoughtful. "You know, there was a case like this a few years back…"

"Yeah, Detective Marks' case. I know." Wes takes a sip of his coffee. "I've been going through his notes. There's not much there."

"You know?" Paekman looks surprised. "How?"

"My friend told me."

And suddenly, Paekman's eyes glitter with interest and it's not aimed at Wes's case. "Your mysterious late-hours friend? You still haven't told me about him."

"Not much to tell. Tra—"

Something in the kitchen explodes. The entire lunchroom goes on alert; more than half the cops rise to their feet, hands on their guns, heads turned to the sound like scent dogs on the trail.

Steam pours out of the kitchen, followed closely by the staff. Then Wes and Paekman are too busy helping to clean up to talk, and by the time everything is settled, lunch hour is over.

**XXXX**

"I'm sorry, Detective, I don't know anything about these women."

"I see." Wes sighs, tucking the photos back in his jacket. "Thank you for your time." He turns away. Maybe it's about time to call it a night. He's already talked to every prostitute working this street, and he's exhausted.

Six nights of this and they haven't found anything. A few who knew the missing girls, but no witnesses. That's the whole point, isn't it? This guy takes the girls with no witnesses around, so there's no one to say they'd been taken. No crime, no investigation.

He hears a small, "Detective?" from behind him.

He turns back around. "Yes?"

The woman shifts, shoving her hands in her pockets. "I don't know anything about those women, but my friend hasn't come home."

Okay. This is a little more promising. Wes pulls out his notepad. "Alright. Can I have your name?"

Her face shifts into something hesitant. "I'd rather not…"

"That's fine. How about your friend's name?"

"Cindy. Cindy Donohue." The prostitute pointes down the street. "She usually works down there. Goes by Candy."

"Okay." Wes makes a note. "And when did she go missing?"

"Last night."

Wes pauses, anticipation exploding in his chest. This could be it. This could be the one. If he can find a clue, _anything_, then he can find Cindy and catch this bastard.

The hooker takes his silence the wrong way. She hunches her shoulders like she's expecting a blow. "Look, I know I'm supposed to wait forty-eight hours, but I'm telling you, this isn't like her. She never stays overnight with clients. Something went wrong."

"I believe you," Wes assures her, scribbling on his pad.

Without much hope, he asks, "Did you see anything?" This guy doesn't leave witnesses.

To his surprise, she says, "Actually, I did."

Wes's head snaps up. "Tell me everything."

The woman points to a recessed doorway. "I was over there. It was a long night and neither of us had much business, so I stepped in there for a smoke. A minute later, the car pulled up."

"Can you describe the car?" Wes's pen races across the paper, taking down everything she says.

"I don't know. Small-ish? Silver. Cars aren't really my thing." She frowns. "But it did have a sticker in the back corner. A comet with a purple tail, like that rental company by the airport."

"Galaxy Rentals?"

"That's the one."

Wes makes another note. "I don't suppose you got the license plate?" Small silver rentals are popular. Even a partial plate would help narrow it down.

"M-J-0-8-1-3," she recites instantly. At his surprise, she gives him a sheepish smile. "My sister's birthday is August thirteen, so I remembered."

Wes writes the number down, feeling hopeful for the first time in months. There's nothing to indicate the john in the silver rental is the one taking the girls, but Wes has a gut feeling. Just like he _knows_ the missing girls are already dead, he _knows_ this one is the one.

"Thank you." He gives her a smile. "Thank you so much."

**XXXX**

He spends an hour and a half driving around looking for Travis. A few women spoke to him, but no one's seen him in at least forty-five minutes. Apparently he left a message with one of the women that he would meet Wes at the station the next night.

Not even the irritation at being ditched can cover his elation at finally having a lead on this thing.

**XXXX**

As soon as Galaxy Rentals opens in the morning, Wes is there flashing his badge and asking to see their records. The manager is very helpful, pulling it right up.

The guy paid in cash, but the company took a photocopy of his license for the rental.

Owen Duric.

Wes stares at the black and white photo and grins to himself. "Got you, you bastard."

**XXXX**

Owen Duric, forty-eight years old. Grew up in a small town in Iowa, moved to LA seven years ago. Up until two years ago, he lived in an isolated (for LA) home across town. Now he lives in an apartment building, but he has a storage shed he pays for every month.

He has no outstanding warrants, and no sealed records. He has, in fact, no criminal record at all, not even a parking ticket.

His face on the DMV photo is bland, unassuming. The kind of face easily forgotten once it's out of sight. He looks harmless, which might be why the hookers weren't suspicious even though people were disappearing.

There's nothing to indicate that Owen Duric is the guy.

But Wes knows. He just _knows_.

**XXXX**

This is the first time he's visited Narco and Vice. It seems busier than Wes expected. He lingers in the doorway a moment, surveying the scene, trying to pick Travis out of the crowd.

A woman walks over, German Shepherd following at her heels. The tag on her uniform says 'Fletcher'. "You look a little lost," she says cheerfully. "Can I help you find something?"

"Someone, actually. I need to talk to Travis."

Wes isn't sure what he's said, but something makes her attitude do a one-eighty. She stiffens, geniality sliding off her face like water.

"What?" she asks, and her voice is flat and brittle.

Wes is getting a very strong 'tread carefully' vibe. Unfortunately, he doesn't know what he said wrong.

"Travis?" he questions. "Blue eyes, leather jacket. I need to talk to him."

"Is this some sort of joke?" she spits out. The dog at her side climbs to all fours, growling low in its throat. Wes takes a step back.

"I'm sorry?"

"It's not very funny," Officer Fletcher snaps, low and angry and even more menacing with the dog's growls thrown in.

"I don't even—"

"Travis doesn't _work_ here, you asshole. You need to _leave_."

The German Shepherd takes a step forward, reacting to the anger in its handler's voice. Wes backs through the doorway, angry and humiliated, made even worse because he doesn't know why.

He feels her eyes glaring holes through him until he's out of sight.

**XXXX**

"Did you find anything last night?"

Wes scowls at the figure leaning in the doorway. "Oh. It's you."

Travis takes that as invitation to glide in. "Hey, are you pissed I ditched you? Something came up, I was gonna find you but I had to go—"

In one smooth motion, as soon as Travis walks into view, Wes rises, gun in hand and pointed right between Travis's eyes.

Travis tenses, hand going for his hip, but he's sensible enough not to draw. He lets his arms fall to his sides, hand open, palms out.

"Wes?" he says carefully.

"Who are you?"

Travis looks genuinely confused. "You know who I am."

"I looked you up." Wes moves around the desk, keeping his gun trained on the other man. "There are only two active cops named Travis. One is a ginger-haired rookie. The other is a fifty-year old Asian man who works a desk job in Juvie Crimes."

Travis's face shifts in a myriad of expressions. "Ah…"

"I thought maybe it wasn't your real name. I assume Narco cops do that. But I checked. There's no detective in Narcotics and Vice that looks like you. So." Wes pulls the hammer back. "Who. Are. You?"

Travis runs a hand over his face. "Oh boy, I knew this would happen. It's why I haven't talked to anyone before now."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Travis sighs, puts his hands on his hips and looks utterly unconcerned about the gun in his face. "Okay. I _never_ lied to you. Let's establish that right now. My real name is Travis, and I did work in Narco and Vice. The reason you couldn't find me is because I'm not active anymore."

Wes's jaw tightens. "Then they'd take away your badge and gun. Which they _haven't_. _Stop lying to me_."

"I'm _not_!" Travis takes another breath, muttering something under his breath that Wes doesn't catch. It's probably insulting.

When he looks up, Wes is floored by the sorrow in that ocean gaze.

"My full name is Travis Marks."

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

Then Wes's brain catches up with his ears.

_Sure I believe in the ghost._

A box with _Marks, T._ written on it.

_Sometimes the lights in the stairwell flicker when I walk through._

Post-it notes saying _THE GHOST WAS HERE!_

_Before your time. Before my time, too. By like one day_.

Always showing up after hours, when no one else is around.

A hundred little oddities that suddenly make sense.

_I never lied to you_.

The gun goes slack in Wes's hands. He stares at the man in front of him and breathes, "No way."

Travis sort of smiles and holds his hands out in a ta-dah gesture. "My name is Detective Travis Marks, and I died two years ago."

**XXXX**

Wes sets his gun on the desk and sinks into his chair. "That's not possible."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Until it happened." Travis leans against Wes's desk like he's done every night, but it doesn't feel like any other night. It feels like the floor is spinning beneath him.

Travis picks up Wes's gun, absently snaps the safety back on. "Didn't you wonder? Why you never experienced the ghost?"

"I don't believe in ghosts," Wes says feebly, like that could possibly make any of this make _sense_.

"Everyone else has a ghost experience. Even if it was a prank, you should have had _something. _But you didn't."

"No. No way." Wes shakes his head, tugs at his hair. "You don't look like a ghost. I've seen you move things. I've seen you _eat_."

"How am I supposed to look? Transparent?" Just like that, Travis fades away. Wes can _see through him_ to the desk beyond. Wes backs away so quickly his chair leaves marks on the floor.

"Or maybe I should have bullet holes and blood spilling out of me?" Travis continues, incensed. Thankfully, no blood or bullet holes appear. "Or, I know, I should be floating in the air making whoo-oo noises, right?" Obligingly, he does just that, floating into the air and hovering several feet above Wes's desk.

"Will you _stop_ _that_?" Wes may not be the most in touch with his emotions, but he knows he's freaking the fuck out right now and he needs Travis to just _stop_ for a second so he can catch his breath.

Travis takes one look at his face and sinks back down to the ground. "Sorry, man," he offers, resuming his former solidity. Wes takes a shaky breath, forces his fingers to release the arms of his chair.

"Okay. So…so you can look…however you want." Wes can accept this. Sure. Right. "What about the…moving and eating?"

"Moving stuff is just…energy. It's easy." Travis shrugs, and every paper and file on Wes's desk rises into the air. Wes jerks back, grabbing the arms of his chair again as though that will give him some sense of stability. It really doesn't help much. His entire belief system is being shaken here, a spinning office chair isn't going to do much good.

Travis lets the papers settle back down. Wes drops his face into his hands, taking deep breaths. "Seriously? This can't be happening. It's a trick somehow."

The smile Travis makes is sadly wistful. "Haven't you noticed we never touch?"

"I don't make a habit of touching people," Wes says dully, looking up. Is this what it feels like to go into shock? It feels kind of like he's maybe going into shock.

In response, Travis holds out one hand, a silent invitation. Wes stares at the offered limb like it's a poisonous snake. He could just…not take it, pretend that everything he's seen so far is illusion or prank or delusion. He's good at brushing aside things he doesn't want to deal with.

But he can't go back to the way things were, not now.

He has to _know_.

He reaches out.

There is sensation, a cold, damp sort of feeling as his fingers pass through Travis's. A brief charge, like static electricity, and then _nothing_. Wes stares at his hand, sticking halfway through Travis's and he feels _nothing_.

"I have to go." He jerks out of his chair, yanking his hand back to his side.

"Wes?" Travis half rises, reaching out like he can help but he _can't_ because he's _dead_.

"No!" Wes stumbles back, bumps his thigh painfully on the corner of a desk and keeps going. He pretends not to see the look of hurt that passes over Travis's face. "Stay. Just…stay there."

Reluctantly, Travis settles back on the desk. "Okay. But you'll come back, right?"

Wes turns and staggers out of the room.

"Wes? You're going to come back, right? Wes!"

**XXXX**

It takes twenty-five minutes before Wes feels calm enough to venture back inside. The room is empty, but Lydia's chair is slowly spinning in circles.

Wes stares at the chair, gingerly settling into his own. "Travis?"

Just that like, Travis is there, between one blink and the next. "Wes," and there's no disguising the relief in the other man's voice. "I wasn't sure you'd return."

"You dropped a bombshell on me, Travis. I'm allowed to take a moment to adjust my worldview."

"True, true." Travis spins the chair again. "And?"

Wes takes a breath. "And…I have decided that I couldn't have made it all up, so you're probably real."

"Oh, I'm so glad." Travis rolls his eyes, sarcasm thick in his voice. "I was worried for a minute there, but your validation solidifies things. I _am_ a real dead boy."

"Shut up." Without thinking about it, Wes tosses a pen at Travis's head. It's something he's done dozens of times when the other man is being annoying, but this time it goes right through Travis's forehead and clatters on the ground behind him.

Travis just grins. "I win."

"You're picking that up, you know." Wes scowls at his desk, stacking his papers and trying not to show how much it unsettles him. It's one thing to know and accept that the man he's been working with for almost two months is a ghost. It's quite another thing to have the proof thrown at him so blatantly.

Travis scoots the chair over, and that's another thing Wes is grateful for, that Travis doesn't give up the pretense of being human just because Wes knows.

"Why me?" he asks quietly, stacking the photos of the missing-probably-dead hookers in a pile. "It was weeks before you knew I was working on the missing working girls, so… why'd you show yourself to _me_?"

Travis sighs, leaning against the desk. "I've been here for two years, Wes, and I only just figured out how to make myself visible for more than a moment. How to solidify enough to speak. You have no idea what that's like, watching everyone around you moving on with their lives and you're stuck in the same place. It's lonely as Hell."

Wes doesn't say anything, because Travis is right. Wes _doesn't _know, and anything he could say would only sound trite.

Travis sighs, making a circle in the air with a finger. The pens in Wes's pen cup start spinning, following the motion.

"I started following people I knew, talking to them. They couldn't see me or hear me, but it was almost like…" He takes a breath, blinks hard. "And then I followed Paekman to the shooting range, and you were there, complaining about your gun."

Wes remembers that. It was his second or third day, his sight was off, and Paekman came over and gave him tips on how to adjust and compensate.

Travis chuckles. "I saw you there, all gussied up and out of place, and my first thought was _'What's with the suit?'_. Following closely on that, my next thought was _'God this guy seems like an ass'._"

Wes grimaces. "Gee, thanks."

Another soft chuckle. "It got better. Only took a few days to think, _'Wow, I bet we could be good friends'_."

Something warm and fuzzy erupts in Wes's stomach. Wes pushes it aside because warm and fuzzy feelings belong in rom-coms and this story isn't one by any means.

He clears his throat. "You, ah, you knew Paekman?" A thought occurs. "Is _that_ why I never got around to telling him about you? You kept interrupting?"

A shameless shrug. "Didn't want the game to end too soon, you know." Travis switches his finger's rotation—the pens start spinning the other direction. "Anyway, after the shooting range, I started trying to…to _will_ myself into visibility. It hadn't worked before, but I had…a feeling, like of all the people in the world _you_ would be the one to see me."

He smiles, and it's fond and nostalgic and radiant in the saddest way. "And then I talked to you, and you know what happened? _You talked back_. I don't think I've ever been so happy."

Wes watches the rotating pens. It's an amazing story, but all he can think to ask again is, "But why me?"

"I don't know, man." Travis drops his hands—the pens stop moving. The smile shifts to something melancholy at best. "Maybe in another life we knew each other. I don't know how these things work."

"Right." Because Travis said, didn't he, that he hadn't believe in this sort of thing until it happened. Wes runs his hands over his face. "So you're a ghost. What now?"

"You don't know?" Travis leans back in his chair, face shifting to eager cockiness. "It's obvious. Now we catch the bastard that murdered me."

**XXXX**

"I think this is why I was left behind. I couldn't figure it out at first, but then you told me about the missing girls, and it all made sense. I'm here to help you get this guy."

Wes frowns dubiously but pulls out his notepad. "Alright. Does the name Owen Duric mean anything to you?"

"Hmm." Travis tips his head back. "Nope, not familiar. He the one?"

"I think so." Wes gives a brief summary of the steps he took to get Duric's name. Travis nods encouragingly as Wes pulls up Duric's DMV photo. "You're sure you don't know him?"

Travis leans over and peers at the picture, and Wes tries not to notice the way the corner of the desk is jutting through Travis's side.

"I don't recognize him," Travis finally announces, leaning back.

"How do you not know the man who shot you?"

"Ah. Maybe I should mention. I don't _actually _remember dying."

"_What?_"

"Yeah." Travis shifts, picking at the hem of his jacket. "I don't remember the whole day, as a matter of fact. One minute I was out on a completely different case, the next I was here. I didn't figure out what happened until I heard some coworkers talking." He shrugs. "I guess it's traumatic or something."

Wes gapes. "Are you serious? If you don't remember, what good are you?"

"Really?" Travis starts ticking points off on his fingers. "I can turn invisible. I can walk through walls. I can _move stuff_ with my _mind_. If nothing else, get close and I can freak the hell out of this guy. What use am I, he says."

He has a point. "Fine," Wes concedes, snapping his notepad shut. "I guess you can come along. Besides, technically it is your case."

"Sweet." Travis rolls the chair back to Lydia's desk. "Oh, and when you go to talk to this guy, wear that necklace I gave you."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know. It's important. If you're not wearing it, I can't be there. And if you go alone like I did, you'll end up right here with me."

An eternity in the police station waiting for Owen Duric to strike again so they can help another cop try and catch him isn't appealing at all.

"Fine," he grumbles, gathering his stuff. "I'll wear the necklace."

"Atta boy." Travis flashes him a sunny smile and it's hard to believe he's not really alive. "I'll see you tomorrow, Wes."

And between one blink and the next, Travis disappears.

Wes shakes his head as he pulls his jacket on. "Mitchell, you have fallen way down the rabbit hole."

Still, when he leaves, he pauses in the doorway and says, "Bye, Travis," to the empty room. Just because.

**XXXX**

It's mid-morning before he sets out. He has some paperwork for a few other cases to finish first. And then he makes a very detailed note of what he's found and where he's going. If, for some reason, something happens and Wes ends up like Travis, he doesn't want there to be any doubt about what happened or who did it. He's not going to wait two more years for his murder to be solved.

Not that he's going to be murdered, but, you know. Just in case.

Wes is nothing if not prepared.

He makes sure to grab Travis's necklace from his drawer before he goes, but he waits until he's sitting in his car to put it on.

Travis instantly materializes in the passenger seat. "Tell me again why you're doing this interview alone?"

"I'm not alone," Wes points out. "I have you."

"And look how I ended up," Travis retorts. "Seriously, why aren't you even talking someone with you?"

"You know why." Wes's hands are tight on the steering wheel as he pulls out of the garage. "I don't have anything on Duric except suspicions. And without a missing person's report for Cindy Donohue—which her friend never came in to do—I can't even question him on her disappearance. If I go alone, the worst they can do is say I jumped the gun and harassed a civilian. I'm not going to drag someone else down with me if this goes poorly. Why are you even asking this? You know exactly why."

"Yeah, I know." Travis leans back, puts his foot on the dash. "I just wanted you to acknowledge that this is a stupid idea no matter your reasons, so when you die, we know it's all your fault."

Wes's hands tighten on the steering wheel again. "I'm not going to die."

"Yeah? Then what's with the 'In case I don't come back' note you left?"

"Shut up."

"Oh, very adult."

Wes glares and Travis rolls his eyes. "_Fine_. You're doing this, despite the reckless stupidity of the whole thing. What's the plan?"

Travis is on board. Wes's hands relax their deathgrip. "I go in, say he was the last person seen in the presence of a missing girl. You do your ghost thing and look for any clues."

"And when he pulls out a gun and shoots you in the forehead?" Travis holds his hands up against Wes's glower. "Hey, it could happen! It happened to me!"

"You don't remember what happened to you." Wes pulls onto the correct street, slowing to peer at the house numbers. "It's going to be fine."

"You keep saying that when you're experiencing the best the afterlife has to offer," Travis scoffs, but a second later he points out the window and says, "That's the one."

It's a tiny apartment complex tucked between two larger apartment complexes. Wes takes a breath. This is it, the culmination of months of work. No more missing girls. This could be _it_.

"I'll meet you up there," Travis announces, disappearing from the passenger seat. Wes follows the more mundane way.

Judging from the inside of the lobby, this is definitely the type of place that doesn't ask too many questions. As he climbs the stairs, Wes can't help but feel like eyes are watching him from behind the closed doors. He wonders how much he looks like a cop right now.

He wonders, were he to disappear inside Duric's apartment, would any of these tenants even admit they saw him walk by?

He shakes his head of the thought, grips the necklace in one hand as he walks down the hall to 4-D. It's fine. He's not alone. Travis is backing him up. Considering Travis is a ghost who was probably killed by the very man behind this door, the thought is more reassuring than Wes would have expected.

He takes another breath. Releases it.

Knocks.

"Mr. Duric? LAPD, I need to ask you a few questions."

Silence. Wes tenses, listening for any sign of life inside.

Nothing. Which could mean Duric isn't home. Or he could be waiting for Wes to leave, right inside, ready to uproot his life and start over in another city now that he's been found out.

Wes knocks again, hand hovering over his gun.

"Owen Duric? Open the door. I need to talk to you."

Still nothing. He's trying to decide just how illegal it would be to kick the door in when Travis appears beside him.

"Don't bother, he's not in there. Neither is the girl."

"_Jesus_, Travis, you trying to give me a heart attack?" Wes holsters his gun, drawn on automatic reflex when Travis popped in, and takes a few breaths through his nose to calm his racing heart. "Warn a guy before you do that."

"What, with ghostly bells chiming on my arrival?"

"Don't be stupid, idiot. Just clear your throat next time before you appear or something." Since Duric obviously isn't here and Wes had his ghost check, he heads back downstairs. Travis follows.

"So, where to next?" Travis asks, hopping down five stairs at a time. Wes has a retort on his tongue about falling and breaking his neck before he recalls. Annoying man.

"Time to check out Duric's storage shed," he says instead.

"Sounds like fun." Travis grins and sinks through the rest of the stairs. Wes rolls his eyes. What a pain in the ass.

**XXXX**

The self-storage yard is another shady, no-questions-asked type place. Rather than flashing his badge, which would probably make the manager clam right up, Wes acts like he wants to open a shed of his own. The manager sees Wes's classy suit and high-priced car and dollar-signs flash in his eyes. Within minutes Wes is allowed to wander the lot—alone, because that's what he asked and the manager is all too willing to oblige the loaded potential client.

Travis pops up beside him as soon as he's out of sight of the manager's office. "Duric's unit is 223," he announces. Then he adds, "We make a good team."

Wes fingers the necklace and admits, "Yeah, we kind of do." It's strange. Paekman is his friend, but he and Travis, they _click_ in a way he and Paekman don't.

It's a shame Travis is dead. Wes has a feeling they would have been great partners.

223 is a corner unit with a rusty orange door. Wes checks the street for any witnesses; the yard is empty. Travis heads towards the door, fading as he goes, and he's invisible by the time he hits the metal.

Wes isn't sure how far he can go before the necklace stops working and Travis can't help anymore, so he lingers in front of 224 and tries not to look suspicious. Or like a cop.

He doesn't hear him approach. There's a quiet, "Can I help you?" and Wes turns, tensing, and Owen Duric is right there, a blocky black gun in his hands.

In basic training, every cop has to get hit by a taser, to know how it feels. Wes hadn't enjoyed it then.

It isn't any more pleasant now.

**XXXX**

When he wakes, the first thing he notices is the woman, tied to a metal beam. Wes doesn't know her, he's never seen her before in his life, but on the chain around her neck is a small gold 'C'.

"Cindy?" he whispers hoarsely.

She nods. She's beat up, bruised and bloody, but for the most part she's whole. And she's alive. That's the most important thing. Wes may not be able to save the other girls, but he can save this one.

The second thing he notices is that he's tied up like Cindy.

The third thing he notices is his gun and badge are missing.

The necklace, Travis's necklace, is still hanging around his neck.

He looks around. It looks like they're in one of the storage units, a much larger one than 223 could be. _Probably paid for it in cash under a different name_, Wes realizes. The beams are part of a large shelving unit, and the lights are dim.

Before he can take in much more, he hears a voice and knows without a doubt it's Owen Duric. His voice is just as unassuming and bland as his face on the DMV photo was.

"You know, I am getting real tired of you cops." Duric steps out of the shadows, tossing Wes's badge at his feet. He's got Wes's gun in the other hand. "First the other one, now you."

"Well, what did you expect?" Wes rolls his wrists, testing his bonds, never taking his eyes off the other man. "You're doing the same thing you did two years ago. Did you think no one would notice?"

"No one noticed back then." Duric paces, scowling at Wes. "No one thought it was worth _anything_. Just a few hookers gone missing. It happens. And that's why it was perfect." He whirls on Wes, waving the gun. "And then the other one came along and ruined _everything_!"

"So you shot him." The knots are tight and well-done, but it's just simple rope. He starts rubbing it on the corner of the metal beam, keeping his movements subtle and small. _Travis ,where are you?_

"I waited, you know." Duric walks over to Cindy, runs the barrel of the gun across her scalp. She shudders, closing her eyes. "After I shot him, I waited to see if they would come for me. But they didn't. And you know what I realized?"

Duric strides over, crouches in front of WeS. He sticks the gun in Wes's face. Wes doesn't look at it, and hopes his fear doesn't show.

"_They didn't know who I was!_" Duric laughs, a nasty, sadistic, gloating sound. "Stupid cop didn't tell anyone."

It's a perfect moment, but Travis doesn't take it. Wes rubs the rope a little faster.

Duric stands. "You know what else I realized?"

"Do tell, I'm all ears."

"You don't have any proof." Duric smiles as Wes's face falls. "That's why you came alone. And that's why you'll end up like the last guy who came alone."

He raises the gun. "I'll get rid of you and the girl. Then I'll just start over. I've heard Seattle is nice this time of year."

Wes flinches, not even trying to be subtle anymore. The rope is thick and if he had a little more time—but there _is_ no time and he doesn't want to haunt the police station forever—!

"Owe-e-en Du-u-ur-i-i-ic."

Travis appears in front of Wes, using all the ghostly theatrics he never bothered with before. He flickers like an old movie, he's transparent, and his voice echoes and whistles like the wind through an old house.

Duric goes pale. "You!" The gun wavers. "I shot you!"

Bullet wounds appear in Travis's intangible form, dripping blood.

"You di-i-id," Travis moans, sound like bad haunted house actor. Wes bites his lip and yanks at the weak spot in the ropes. Not quite, but almost.

"Did you think I wouldn't come back for yo-o-ou?" Travis groans, floating towards the murderer. Duric back up in a hurry. "Did you think you were _sa-a-afe_?"

The rope _finally_ snaps. He's rubbed his wrists raw, but he ignores the pain, scrambling over to Cindy and working at her bonds. "Can you walk?" he hisses.

She stares wide-eyed at Travis. "What is _that_?"

"That's my partner." The knots are too tight. Wes growls, grabs his keys and hacks away at the rope with the jagged teeth. "Cindy, can you walk?"

She finally tears her eyes away, looking over her shoulder at him. "I think so."

"Good." The teeth on the keys snap the rope in record time. Wes hauls her to her feet, gently pushing her towards the door. "Go. Find the first phone you can and call the police. Go!" She staggers off, fingering her feet after a few steps. Wes watches until she's out of sight, then steps back to the confrontation between Travis and Duric.

Duric whirls around at his appearance and pulls the trigger. There's a low growl and Travis appears in front of Wes, deflecting the bullet into the wall.

"You shouldn't have done that," Travis snarls, and the gun flies out of Duric's hand. Duric goes even paler as the gun spins in midair, pointing right at him.

"Travis, don't do this." Wes circles the pair, eyeing the floating gun. "We got him. You don't need to do this."

"He killed me!" And it's a roar, angry and despairing and bleak, and Wes doesn't think Travis is putting on any theatrics right now. "He left me to rot! I was stuck here for two years because of this bastard!"

"I know." Gentle, gentle, like talking to a wild dog. "But you don't have to kill him. He's going to rot in jail for the rest of his life. Isn't that enough?"

Travis's jaw goes tight, eyes shining with angry tears. "You can't blame me for this."

"I can't. I'd want to, too, if I were you. But you _don't have to do this._"

He waits, baited breath, as Travis decides. If Travis pulls the trigger, Wes can come up with something, some way to make this a justifiable shooting for the report. Duric kidnapped him, he got loose and they fought for the gun…with Cindy gone, there are no witnesses to refute it. He could.

He hopes he doesn't have to.

"Travis, you're not like this," he says gently. "You don't have to do this."

Another tense moment of indecision.

Then Travis sighs. "Fine. Cuff him."

Travis keeps the gun trained on Duric until Wes has him cuffed against the wall. He sighs again as he releases the gun into Wes's hands.

"It would have been really satisfying to shoot him."

"You can't shoot him, Travis." Wes rolls his eyes as he holsters his gun.

"Not even a tiny shoulder wound?"

"No." Despite himself, Wes smiles a little. (He'll never admit he kind of finds Travis funny.) "You're not like that."

"Damn straight." Travis puts his hands on his hips and flashes a cocky smile. "Even dead I'm better than this scum."

Sirens sound outside. They both look at the door.

"I guess that's my cue. " Travis says.

"Will I see you again?" Wes tries not to sound too pleading. He doesn't think he manages.

Travis shrugs. "I don't know, man. I know how this works about as well as you do."

"So maybe I will see you again."

"Maybe."

There's a moment, the sort of moment that would have sweeping violins and rising strains and chords in a movie. But this _isn't_ a movie and Wes doesn't have scriptwriters to tell him what to say, so he stays silent.

Travis gives him a sad smile. "Bye, Wes."

And then he's gone.

Wes swallows, blinks hard. "Come on," he orders, hauling Duric to his feet and into the light.

**XXXX**

The media dubs him the Gentleman Caller, the most notorious serial killer LA has ever had, because no one even knew he existed. And Wes is the conquering hero who brought him in.

His coworkers go from thinking of him as a weirdo with a conspiracy theory to their best friend. They all knew and supported him in the pursuit of the Caller, of course. Within a week Wes is so tired of the constant coverage and media attention that he doesn't even bother protesting the lie anymore.

He falsifies a good portion of his official report, because the truth is unbelievable. The only time he mentions Travis is when he commends Detective Marks for laying the groundwork that helped him solve the case.

The best thing about solving this case is the resulting promotion to Robbery Homicide. But it's a hollow victory, because he can't help but be all too cognizant of the empty space at his side where Travis should be standing.

**XXXX**

"What's with the long face?" Paekman claps him on the shoulder. "You caught a serial killer, got promoted to RH, and drinks are on me. What's there to be sad about?"

Wes musters up half a smile, fingering Travis's necklace. He's taken to wearing it all the time, but Travis hasn't shown up since the arrest. "Yeah, no, it's good," he assures Paekman. "I just…wish my friend could be here too."

"Ah, your after-hours friend?"

Wes winces. "There are a thousand ways you could have worded that better."

"You know what I mean," Paekman laughs, bumping his shoulder. "Dude, call him up. Invite him over!"

If only it were that simple. "I don't think he's there anymore."

"And…you don't know his cell?"

"It's _complicated_, Paekman."

Paekman takes a long swallow of his beer, eyes trailing to the necklace. "I'll bet it is. How 'bout we get a pitcher and a table and you tell me about it?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you everything," Wes scoffs into his glass.

The Asian man raises one eyebrow challengingly. "Try me." He waves for a pitcher and leads the way to a table in the corner. It's isolated enough, for a moderately crowded bar on a Friday night, and the neighboring tables are more interested in their own conversations than what he and Paekman are talking about.

Paekman takes the pitcher with thanks and pours them both copious amounts. "Alright, talk," he demands, shoving the mug at Wes.

"Talk about what?" Wes stalls, sipping the beer.

"Tell me about the case." Paekman shrugs. "Tell me the things you left out of your report, because there's _always_ things left out of the official record. Tell me about your after-hours friend. Tell me about that necklace."

He leans forward, intent on his target—which in this case is Wes. "Tell me _everything_."

And Wes is tired of keeping it in, of not being able to talk about the best partner he's ever had.

So he tells, from that first night in the office to the last day in the storage unit. It takes half a pitcher to get through the story, and Paekman doesn't interrupt him once.

At the end of it, Paekman leans back and whistles. "That's incredible."

"I know." Wes chuckles sourly. "Completely unbelievable."

"Now, I didn't say that." Paekman waffles his head side to side. "It explains a few things, fills in some holes in your report."

Wes stares at the bottom of his mug. "Does that mean you believe me?"

_That_ makes Paekman laugh. "Definitely. I've had my suspicions about the identity of the ghost for a while, but nothing I could prove. Besides, I knew Travis. He was stubborn enough to stay around."

It's a relief, to know his friend doesn't think he's crazy. Wes's shoulders relax.

Paekman studies him over the rim of his mug. "There's just one thing wrong with your story. An incorrect assumption you and Travis both made."

"Yeah? What's that."

"Travis isn't dead."

**XXXX**

"I can see how neither of you would know. If Travis doesn't remember getting shot, he certainly wouldn't remember what happened next. And by the time you arrived, no one was talking about it anymore."

Wes stands in the long-care hospital room, feeling dizzy. The whoosh of the ventilator is loud, and the heart monitor constantly counts. _Beep. Beep. Beep._

Paekman leans on the doorframe, looking at the man in the bed. "He was shot four times. Twice in the shoulder, once in the leg, and once in the gut. He flatlined on the table, but he pulled through. Then the anesthesia wore off and he just didn't wake up."

He looks…the same. He's covered in tubes and wires and he's wearing a hospital gown instead of a leather jacket, but other than that he could be sleeping.

Wes clutches the necklace and takes a step into the room. _Travis, are you getting this?_

"Not long after, people started talking about a ghost at the station. Everyone had their suspicions, but it's not the sort of thing you can prove. After a while, people just…stopped talking about it."

Travis looks solid, lying in the bed, but Wes has been fooled before. Wes reaches out, fingers brushing the back of one mocha hand, and he touches…flesh. Tangible, solid, _real_ flesh.

"His family all chip in to pay the bills. Some cops do, too. The doctors say he's braindead, but…like I said, Travis is a stubborn bastard. We're all hoping he'll come back."

Wes gropes for the chair beside the bed, sinking into it. He presses his hand against his mouth and takes deep breaths, staring at the man in the bed.

The heart monitor beeps a steady cadence, a constant litany of _Alive, alive, Travis is alive!_

**XXXX**

"Maybe this means you can go back," Wes says to the empty department, taking a break from packing his stuff up. He twists Travis's necklace in the air, watching it spin. "It's just a matter of reconnecting your body and your, your spirit. I'm sure we can figure it out."

He waits expectantly, but there's no sign of life, ghostly or otherwise.

"Travis? You're still here, right?"

Travis doesn't answer.

**XXXX**

RHD is demanding and intense and rewarding in an entirely different way than Missing Persons was. It's a great job, one of the best assignments he could get.

His new partner Phil is nice enough. A bit annoying, actually, but he knows what he's doing. Still, Wes knows it could be better. He's _had_ better, and this isn't it.

He starts doing research.

**XXXX**

"So I've been doing some research," Wes says, sitting in his car in the hospital parking lot. "Ghosts are always tied to something. A person, a place, an object. That's what this is, isn't it?" He holds up the necklace, lets it dangle from his grasp. "This is your tether."

Nothing.

"Travis, I know you're there and I swear to god if you don't show up I'll flush this down the toilet."

"Oh my god, my sister gave me that, you asshole."

Something in Wes's chest loosens, a part of him that wasn't really sure if Travis was still here. He glances over with a wry, "About time."

Travis leans back and props his foot on the dash. "Man, I was recuperating from saving your ass. You don't know how much that little show with Duric took out of me."

"It's been two weeks."

"I may have also tried the whole moving on thing."

Wes waits. "And?"

"And I'm still here, aren't I?" Travis peers out the windshield at the hospital. "Hey, I know this place. Why are we here?"

Wes affects calm. "You really don't know? I came here before."

"Recuperating, remember?" Travis glances over, does a doubletake at whatever he sees on Wes's face. "What? What is it?"

Wes swallows and unlocks the door. "I have something to show you."

**XXXX**

"Holy shit."

Wes quietly closes the door behind him as Travis circles his comatose body.

"Holy _shit_."

"That was pretty much my reaction too."

Travis jumps up, hovering over the bed. "Dude, this is more unbelievable than the whole ghost thing. I mean, this is the sort of thing that happens in movies!"

The thought has occurred to Wes. "I guess you got lucky."

"I guess." Travis glances over. "You're the one who's done all the research. So how do I get back _in_ my body, now that I'm not dead anymore?"

"You were never dead, Travis." The internet says very little about this sort of thing, and when it does happen it usually involves hired mediums. Wes wouldn't trust a medium for a thousand yards, so he says, "Maybe just…possess your body?"

Travis gives him a Look. "Have you tried to possess something? It's exhausting, man." But he positions himself so he's above his body, facing the ceiling. "But since I have no other ideas…"

Slowly, he sinks into his skin.

Wes waits with baited breath.

Travis sits up. The ghost, not the hospital-gown-clad flesh version. "I don't think it's working." He tries it a few more times, laying down and sitting up. "Nope, definitely not working."

"Of course it's not that easy." Wes paces, trying to come up with something .Without thinking about it, he runs his hand through his hair, forgetting that he carried Travis's necklace up here. The chain snags in his hair and the medallion whacks him in the face.

"Ow!" He pulls the chain free, glares at it. Then he has a thought.

"Travis, your necklace is important, right? I mean, you need it to leave the station."

"Yup." Travis floats over. "Someone has to wear it for me to leave."

"Did you ever try leaving without having someone wear it? You can move things with your mind, after all."

Travis feigns shock. "Why gosh, Wes, I never thought of that! Of course I tried without a middleman, dumbass. It didn't work. I didn't have enough power."

Wes feels the glimmer of an idea. "Explain."

"What's there to explain?" Travis throws his hands up. "You need energy to do stuff. The living get it from food. I get it from people, thoughts, emotions, life force, etc. At the station it's like I'm plugged in, and when I leave I'm running on battery power. But my batteries are AAA and I need C. That's why I need someone to wear it. It—and I—draw energy from the wearer to function outside the station."

He pauses, giving Wes an apologetic look. "That also may be why you were so exhausted when we were interviewing those hookers. Sorry about that."

Wes waves aside the apology, staring at the body on the bed. He has an idea. It's unsupported by anything he read, but it might work.

"What if," he says slowly, "you just need more energy? Like a car battery. You can't get back to your body because you need to jump-start the connection."

"Hey, yeah, that could work." Travis contemplates his body. "But where would I get—no. Oh, _no_, I won't."

"It's not unlike donating blood, which I've done before."

"Wes, no!" Travis backs away like Wes is about to throw his energy at him. "We have no idea how much it would take. It could kill you!"

"So could my job," Wes points out. "I've accepted the risks, given my consent. If it goes too far, just stop."

"I don't know…" Travis bites his lip, casting a wistful glance at the bed.

"Travis, it's fine. I…I trust you." The words don't come easy, but they're true.

"Oh, well, _that's _your mistake." Travis gives him a watery smile. "Going around _trusting_ people." He drifts forward.

"Not everyone," Wes corrects. "You."

"Well, in _that_ case."

Travis's hands are cold and ephemeral, coming up to cup Wes's cheeks. There's a burst of static electricity, and then he goes dizzy and stumbles.

"Wes? You okay?"

"Didn't expect it to happen so fast." He takes a few steps back, leans against the wall for support. "Keep going."

Travis does. In less than a minute Wes's legs won't hold him up; Travis follows him to the floor.

Right before he passes out, he sees Travis flash him a toothy smile and say, "See you on the other side, Wes."

**XXXX**

"Sir, are you alright?"

Wes blinks awake to find a doctor and several nurses leaning over him.

"I'm fine." Wes groans, trying to sit. The room spins—the doctor helps him upright. "I'm fine. How's Travis?"

The man doesn't even look at the bed. "He's fine. I'm more concerned about why you fainted. Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous? Have you hit your head recently?"

"Doctor?" A nurse, who _did_ go check on Travis at Wes's question, is staring at the monitors. "Can you come over here?"

Wes waves the man away. The doctor sighs and gets up, leaving Wes in the capable hands of nurse number two, and goes to the bed.

Wes closes his eyes in the hopes that the room will stop spinning and tilting beneath him, so he misses the expression that crosses the doctor's face.

But there's no mistaking the stunned shock in his voice when he says, "My god, I think he's starting to wake up."

**XXXX**

Waking up from a coma isn't like the movies. There's no instant moment from sleep to wakefulness. Travis doesn't open his eyes and sit up and recognize everyone around him. It's slow, and even though they have him off the ventilator on the second day, it still takes five days before he opens his eyes.

Wes is there every day after work, waiting. He meets more of Travis's family than he thinks possible—there's so many foster moms and brothers and sisters that he loses track of all the names in a day.

A few of them ask who he is, how he knows Travis, but most of them are more focused on the man in the bed. Once Wes says he knows Travis from work, he's no longer part of the equation. By the end of the week he thinks he becomes more a piece of the background that's always _there _than anything else.

It causes tension with his wife. She doesn't understand.

Paekman does, and he gives Wes a small smile when he stops by with flowers. "Hanging in there, man?" he asks quietly.

Wes returns the smile. "Better than I was at the bar." Because Travis isn't dead. He's alive and real and waking up and it's a better outcome than he could have hoped for.

Paekman gives him a gentle nudge and wink and goes to say hello to one of the foster moms he knows, and Wes fades into the background again.

Now it's just a waiting game.

**XXXX**

It's pure luck Wes is there when Travis wakes up for good. He's already been there for an hour and a half, going over some notes for his latest case, and he's packed up to leave when he hears a groan from the bed. Noises are common, just like eye opening is common, just like movement is common, it doesn't necessarily mean _this is it_ because waking up from a coma is a process, that's what the doctors keep saying, it's a _process_ and it will take _time, _but Wes looks anyway.

What he sees is Travis blinking at the ceiling in confusion, vaguely frowning. Wes waits, forcing himself to breathe because if he didn't he would just hold his breath.

Travis blinks again.

Then he turns his head and blinks at Wes and gives a sleepy, puzzled smile.

"Hi."

His voice is hoarse and weak, two years with a tube down his throat will do that, but is so unmistakably _Travis _and it's just…

Wes drops his stuff on the chair and strides over to the bed.

"Travis. God, it's good to see you. How are you feeling?"

The puzzled smile stays in place. "Alright?" Travis coughs a little. Wes grabs the pitcher of water from the nightstand and pours him a cup, helps Travis sit up so he can drink it.

"Thanks," Travis says when he's done drinking, and his voice is a little more solid now. Wes can't help but smile, relief and joy all mixed into one emotion.

And then Travis looks at him with eyes free of recognition and says, "Do I know you?"

Wes's smile freezes on his face. "You don't remember?"

"I…" The other man frowns, struggling to recall. "I don't…there was a case?"

And this, this is something Wes didn't anticipate, that Travis wouldn't even _remember_. They spent almost two months together, friends and partners and they caught a serial killertogether and Wes had just _assumed_ that when Travis woke up it would go back to that, he would remember and they'd slide right back into the same routine.

He should have expected this. Happy endings only happen in movies, and this isn't in any way a movie.

Travis is watching him, eyes concerned which is funny coming from a guy who just woke up from a coma. "Are you alright?"

The smile Wes forces onto his face is brittle and probably shows way more than he intends. "Let me go get the doctor."

The pace he sets on the way out of the room is just short of a run. He barely takes the time to grab his stuff.

The moment he says "Travis is awake," the doctor is rushing into the room without any further thought to Wes. He lingers for a moment, wanting to go back inside and support Travis, but…what's the point? Travis doesn't remember him. He's a stranger, and you don't have strangers in your room at times like this.

Wes grips his case in one hand and Travis's necklace in the other and walks out of the hospital without looking back.

**XXXX**

He doesn't return.

**XXXX**

He ends up stuffing the necklace in the back of his desk drawer. He throws himself into his cases and he doesn't think about it.

Most of the time, it works.

**XXXX**

"So you're the one."

Wes's file falls out of his hands. His heart pounds in his chest, and he has to swallow hard to force down the emotions bubbling in his throat. He kneels and begins gathering papers, not looking at his visitor.

He figured he would get this visit, once Travis was well enough to be out and about on his own. After all, he's the one who caught the man that put Travis in a coma for two years. But it's one thing to expect it and another for it to happen and Wes thought he was prepared but he isn't, not in the slightest.

"Hey, let me help with that." The other male kneels too, and a familiar mocha hand passes into view.

Wes swallows and forces his head up.

Travis Marks smiles at him, all bright eyes and white teeth and not an ounce of recognition. Wes knows there wouldn't be, has known from that day in the hospital that Travis wouldn't just miraculously remember everything. Wes is nothing to him.

Two months since that day in the hospital and it still makes his chest tight.

Travis holds out a handful of papers. "Here you go."

"…Thanks," Wes forces past dry lips. If his hand shakes a little when he takes the papers back, Travis is kind enough not to mention it.

They stand and Wes makes a big show of organizing the file. Travis leans his hip casually against the desk, and a part of Wes aches for how familiar it all is.

Except it's all new to Travis, and he has to remember that. (How can he forget, that look in Travis's eyes, the complete lack of recognition despite everything they'd done…)

"You're the one who caught the Gentleman Caller," Travis muses, and Wes can feel his eyes on him. He resists the urge to fidget. "I suppose congrats are in order."

"I guess," Wes mutters, gathering his stuff. "I didn't do it all on my own, though," he adds, the words slipping out before he can help himself.

"No?" He can hear the frown in the other man's voice. "You weren't alone? The papers didn't mention anyone else."

Wes's hands hesitate. "It's…a long story."

"Well, I've got time, and I'd love to hear it."

A part of Wes wants to sit down and talk with Travis. Unload the whole story on him the way he'd unloaded on Paekman, because maybe talking about it will trigger the memories and Travis will—

Another part wants to get the hell out of here and make it clear he doesn't want to see Travis, ever again. Not even a little. (Except he does.)

Wes glances up, and Travis's smile is what sells him. The darker man is smiling that same, slightly-flirtatious, easy-come-easy-go smile he'd given Wes the first time they'd met at the vending machine. And Wes knows, in that instant, he'll never be able to just walk away and avoid Travis the rest of his life.

Even if he has to start from scratch, he wants that friendship again. That _partnership_.

They made a good team, and Wes is sure they will again.

"How about I tell you the story over a drink?" he offers.

Travis makes a vaguely pained noise in his throat. "Man, I'd love to, but I'm really not supposed to be drinking right now. Doctor's orders."

Which Wes supposes makes sense. Not that he knows much about medicine, but no doubt men only a few months out of comas shouldn't be drinking.

He isn't deterred. "How about a soda, then?"

Travis's grin is back, full-force. "I can drink soda."

**XXXX**

"You know, when you said 'buy me a soda', I didn't think you meant vending machine soda in the break room."

Wes tosses the can to Travis, settling into his seat with a fond smile. "I have good memories of the break room. I thought it was fitting."

"Hey, whatever works." Travis pops the tab and sits back, propping his feet on a second chair. Wes can't help the dirty look he shoots the other man; as per the norm, Travis doesn't so much as budge.

"So how'd you do it? How'd you figure it out? Tell me all the details."

"You read the case file, I assume?" Wes asks, hands wrapped around his soda.

"Of course." Travis waves a hand. "But I wanted to hear the real story, all the nitty gritty stuff you didn't put in the _official_ report. I'm invested. He put me in a coma for two years, you know."

_Oh, I know_, Wes doesn't say, and he looks down at his can. He's afraid that would come out too maudlin. Which would bring up questions Wes doesn't know how to answer.

Of course, Travis is currently asking questions Wes doesn't know how to answer. To tell the entire truth, or the sanitized-for-the-brass truth…

"It's…complicated," Wes hedges, rolling his unopened soda between his hands.

"I figure." Travis hums. "Also, I talked to Paekman. He says you need to tell me the _entire _story, not the one you spread around the water cooler. Whatever that means."

_Paekman, you ass…_ Wes shifts, rolling the soda again. "I don't know where to start."

"It's a story, right?" Travis takes a long guzzle, watching Wes's face. "Start at the beginning."

Wes studies the other man. He remembers all those nights sitting here at this very table, just talking. He remembers walking the streets, interviewing working girls to find the person taking them. He remembers a hospital room, and waiting, and a crushing sense of defeat as everything he hoped for fails to happen.

But there's a chance he could get it all back, build it new from the ashes. It could happen.

Wes wants it to happen.

He makes his choice.

"The beginning, huh? Alright." Wes leans back, puts on his best storyteller voice. "They say the 44th Street police station is haunted. That strange things happen when no one is watching, and the officers believe they have a ghost in the building…"

**OOOO**

**I hope you enjoyed it. Comments, reviews, and constructive criticism is always welcome here!**

**Until next time~!**


End file.
